A Sportsman's Notebook

by Ivan Turgenev

  It would have been futile to try to convince Kasyan of the impossibility of “putting spells” on game, and therefore I gave him no answer. Meanwhile we had turned through the gates.

  Annushka was not in the cabin; she had already been there and left the mushrooms. Erofei fixed the new axle, after first submitting it to a harsh and unjust appraisal; within an hour I drove off, leaving some money with Kasyan, who at first refused to take it, but then, after thinking and holding it in the palm of his hand, put it into his bosom. During this hour he had uttered hardly so much as a word. As before, he stood leaning against the gates, without answering the reproaches of my coachman. He took leave of me very coldly.

  As soon as I had returned, I had at once observed that my Erofei was again in a gloomy mood. . . . In fact he had found nothing to eat in the village and the water for the horses was brackish. We drove off. With dissatisfaction expressed even at the back of his head, he sat on the box, wanting desperately to talk to me; but while awaiting my first question he limited himself to faint grumblings under his breath and to words of instruction addressed to the horses, but sometimes venomously expressed. “Village!” he muttered. “Village, indeed! Why, I tried asking for kvass and they haven’t even got that. . . . Good Lord! and as for the water, it’s just filth!” He spat loudly. “No cucumber, no kvass, nothing. Well, you,” he added loudly, turning to the right side-horse, “I know you, you fraud, you! You like pretending, to be sure. . . .” He struck the horse with the whip. “He’s become an utter rascal, and yet he used to be such an obedient beast. . . . Well, just you look out!”

  “Tell me, Erofei,” I began, “what sort of fellow is this Kasyan?”

  Erofei didn’t answer at once: he was always a man of reflection and deliberation; but I guessed at once that my question had pleased and calmed him.

  “The Flea?” he said at length, changing his grip on the reins. “A queer fellow: a regular crank, a queer fellow whose like you wouldn’t find in a hurry. You see, he’s exactly like this horse of ours; he has become quite unmanageable, too . . . so far as making him work goes. Well, of course, he’s no use as a worker—he’s hardly got any body for his soul to hang on to—well, anyway . . . You see, he’s been the same ever since he was a boy. First of all, he went into the driving business with his uncles; they drove in troikas; then, of course, he got bored and chucked it. He started living at home, but even at home he couldn’t sit still, such a restless chap he is—a proper Flea. Luckily he happened to have a good master who didn’t make him do anything, and since then he has done nothing but wander about like a stray sheep. And such a strange fellow he is, God knows. Sometimes still as a stock, then suddenly he starts talking—and what it’s all about, God knows. What sort of manners is that? No sort of manners at all. He makes no sense, and that’s the truth. He sings well, though, solemn and well.”

  “Is it true that he is a healer?”

  “Healer, indeed! . . . Whatever next? A fellow like him! All the same he did cure me of jaundice. . . . A stupid fellow if ever there was one,” he added, after a silence.

  “Have you known him for long?”

  “Yes. We were neighbors at Sychovka, near Fair Springs.”

  “But this girl who met us in the forest—Annushka—is she anything to do with him?”

  Erofei looked at me over his shoulder and smiled all over his face. “Ho . . . yes, they’re related. She’s an orphan: no mother, no one knows who her mother was. But she must be a relation of his: she’s so like him. . . . Anyway, she lives with him. She’s a smart girl; she’s a good girl. And you won’t believe this, but, if you please, he’s had the idea of teaching his Annushka to read and write. That’s just like him. He’s such an extraordinary fellow. Such a flighty chap, with such big ideas, too . . . eh, eh, eh!”

  My coachman suddenly interrupted himself and, holding the horses, bent over sideways and started sniffing the air. “Isn’t there a smell of burning? I thought so! Oh, these new axles! . . . I was right to give it a good greasing . . . I must get some water: luckily, here’s a pond.”

  Erofei slowly dismounted from the box, untied the bucket, went to the pond, and, returning, listened, not without enjoyment, to the hissing of the wheel-hub under the sudden shock of water. . . .

  Six times in some ten versts he had to drench the overheated axle. The evening was already far advanced when we returned home.

  The Bailiff

  FIFTEEN VERSTS AWAY FROM MY PROPERTY THERE LIVES AN ACQUAINTANCE of mine, a young landowner, a retired Guards officer, by name Arkady Pavlich Penochkin. There is plenty of game on his land, his house is built to the plans of a French architect, his servants are dressed in the English manner, he gives excellent dinners, receives his guests amiably, yet all the same one goes to his house with reluctance. He is a judicious, steady fellow, he had what is considered an excellent education, served in the army, moved in the best society, and now devotes himself to agriculture with a great deal of success. Arkady Pavlich, to use his own words, is strict but just, has the good of his serfs at heart, and punishes them—for their good. “One must treat them like children,” he says on such occasions. “Illiteracy, mon cher, il faut prendre cela en considération.” He himself, when “the painful duty” impels him, avoids sharp or abrupt movements, dislikes raising his voice, and prefers to slide his hand out, adding calmly: “But I asked you to, my good fellow,” or “What is the matter with you, my friend? Wake up,” and this with only a slight clenching of the teeth and a twist of the mouth to one side. He is of small stature, neat of build, not at all bad-looking, with carefully kept hands and nails; his red lips and cheeks fairly breathe good health. He has a ringing, carefree laugh, accompanied by an attractive narrowing of his clear brown eyes. He dresses excellently and with taste. He gets French books, illustrations, and papers sent to him, but he is not a great reader. It was all he could do to plough through “The Wandering Jew.” At cards, he plays a masterly game. All in all, Arkady Pavlich is considered one of the most cultured gentlemen and eligible bachelors of our province; the ladies are mad about him, and particularly admire his manners. He conducts himself extremely well, is as careful as a cat, and has never in all his life been mixed up in any trouble; although, on occasion, he likes to throw his weight about and to embarrass and snub the timid. He resolutely spurns low company—from fear of compromising himself; all the same, in his moments of high spirits, he declares himself for a devotee of Epicurus, though his general opinion of philosophy is poor, and he describes it as the “cloudy sustenance of the Teutonic mind,” or sometimes, simply, as “twaddle.” He loves music; at cards, he sings through his teeth, but with feeling; he remembers a few airs from Lucia di Lanunermoor and Somnambula, but sings them all slightly sharp. In the winter he goes to Petersburg. His house is remarkably well-ordered; even the coachmen have felt his influence and not only clean the harness and their own coats every day, but wash their own faces. Arkady Pavlich’s house-serfs have, it is true, a somewhat sidelong look—but in Russia it is never possible to distinguish the surly from the merely sleepy. Arkady Pavlich speaks in a soft and pleasant voice, with deliberation, as if it gave him pleasure to pass his words one by one through his handsome, scented moustache. He also uses plenty of French expressions like: “Mais c’est impayable! Mais comment donc!” and so on. With it all, I, for one, am never overkeen to visit him, and if it weren’t for the blackcock and the partridge I should probably have lost sight of him altogether. A strange uneasiness takes hold of you in his house; even the comfort gives you no pleasure, and every time, in the evening, when a footman with curled hair, in a blue livery with heraldic buttons, appears before you and begins obsequiously pulling your boots off, you feel that if, instead of his pale, lean figure, there could suddenly bob up in front of you the enormous wide cheekbones, the improbable snub-nose, of a sturdy young peasant-lad, only just taken by his master from the plough, but already successful in having burst at a dozen places the seams of his new nankeen coat, you woul
d be quite overjoyed, and would eagerly submit yourself to the danger of having your leg pulled right off from the hip-bone with the boot.

  Notwithstanding my aversion for Arkady Pavlich, I once stayed the night in his house. Early the following morning I ordered my carriage to be harnessed, but he refused to let me go without taking breakfast in the English manner, and led me into his study. We were served with tea, cutlets, soft-boiled eggs, butter, honey, cheese, and so forth. Two footmen in clean white gloves swiftly and silently forestalled our slightest wish. We were sitting on a Persian divan. Arkady Pavlich was wearing wide silk trousers, a black velvet jacket, a handsome fez with a blue tassel, and yellow heelless Chinese slippers. He drank tea, laughed, inspected his nails, smoked, tucked cushions under his side, and in short was in an excellent humor. After breakfasting amply and with evident satisfaction, Arkady Pavlich poured himself out a glass of red wine, lifted it to his lips, and suddenly frowned.

  “Why is the wine not warmed?” he asked one of the footmen, in a fairly sharp voice.

  The man became confused, halted as if rooted to the ground, and turned pale.

  “I am asking you a question, my good fellow,” continued Arkady Pavlich calmly, without shifting his gaze from him.

  The unhappy footman fidgeted where he stood, twisted his napkin, and said not a word. Arkady Pavlich lowered his head and looked thoughtfully at him from under his eyebrows.

  “Pardon, mon cher,” he said with an agreeable smile and a friendly touch of his hand on my knee, and stared again at the footman. “Well, you can go,” he added, after a short silence, lifted his eyebrows, and rang.

  A man came in, a stout, swarthy fellow with black hair and a low forehead and eyes completely buried in fat.

  “About Fyodor . . . the necessary steps,” said Arkady Pavlich, in a low voice and with complete self-possession.

  “Very good, sir,” answered the fat one and went out.

  “Voilà, mon cher, les désagréments de la campagne,” remarked Arkady Pavlich gaily. “But where are you off to? Wait, sit down again for a bit longer.”

  “No,” I answered. “It is time for me to go.”

  “Always shooting! Oh, you shooting men! But where are you going now?”

  “To Ryabovo. Forty versts away.”

  “Ryabovo? Goodness me, why in that case I’ll come with you. Ryabovo is at most five versts from my place at Shipilovka, and it is ages since I was last there: I could never find a moment to go. This is a piece of luck: you shoot at Ryabovo to-day, and in the evening you come to my place. Ce sera charmant. We will dine together—we will take the cook with us, and you will stay the night with me. Splendid!” he added, without waiting for me to answer. “C’est arrangé. Hey there! Tell them to harness the carriage for us, and be quick about it. You’ve never been to Shipilovka? I would have been ashamed to suggest that you should spend the night in my bailiff’s cabin, but I know you’re not fussy and wouldn’t have minded spending the night at Ryabovo in a hay-shed. . . . Let’s go, let’s go!”

  And Arkady Pavlich began to sing a French love-song.

  “You may not know,” he continued, swaying from one leg to the other, “that my peasants there are rent-paying. It’s that Constitution—and there’s nothing one can do about it. All the same, they pay their rent regularly, or of course I would have transferred them to labor-duty long ago, but there is so little land! Even as it is, I am surprised at the way they make both ends meet. Anyhow, c’est leur affaire. The bailiff I have there is a stout fellow, une forte tête, a born administrator! You’ll see. . . . Well, what a piece of luck this is!”

  There was nothing for it. Instead of leaving at nine o’clock in the morning, we left at two. Sportsmen will imagine my impatience. Arkady Pavlich loved, as he put it, to make a fuss of himself when he got the chance, and took with him an immense supply of linen, victuals, liquor, perfumes, pillows, and dressing-cases of all sorts, such as would have lasted a careful, self-denying German for a whole year. Every time we went downhill Arkady Pavlich treated the coachman to a short but vehement lecture, from which I was able to conclude that my acquaintance was a thorough poltroon. Our journey went off without a hitch; except that on a recently mended bridge the cook’s cart broke down and the cook’s belly got bruised by the back wheel.

  Seeing the mishap to his home-trained Karem, Arkady Pavlich got a bad fright and at once sent to ask if his hands were all right. Receiving an affirmative answer, he calmed down at once. What with all this, we had spent a long time under way; I sat in the carriage with Arkady Pavlich and towards the end of the journey I became bored to death, the more so because, as the hours went by, he talked himself out and even got round to liberalism. At last we came, not to Ryabovo, but straight to Shipilovka; it just happened that way. In any case, it would have been too late for me to go shooting that day, so I contained myself and submitted to my fate.

  The cook had arrived a few minutes before us and evidently had already managed to take the necessary steps and warn those concerned, for at the very moment when we crossed the village boundary we were met by the headman (the son of the bailiff), a sturdy, red-headed peasant, seven feet high, on horse-back, capless, and wearing a new overcoat, unbuttoned. “But where is Sofron?” Arkady Pavlich asked him. The headman first jumped nimbly from his horse, bowed deeply to his master, and said: “Good day, father Arkady Pavlich,” then raised his head, pulled himself together, and announced that Sofron had gone to Perov, but that they had already sent to fetch him. “Well, come along after us,” said Arkady Pavlich. The headman led his horse respectfully to one side, clambered on to it, and trotted after the carriage, holding his cap in his hand. We drove through the village. A few peasants in empty carts were driving towards us; they were coming from the threshing-floor and singing songs, beating time with their bodies and waving their legs in the air; but, when they saw our carriage and the headman, they suddenly fell silent, took off their winter caps (it was in fact summer) and sat up as if expecting orders. Arkady Pavlich gave them a gracious bow. A mood of anxious excitement spread visibly through the village. Peasant women in check skirts threw bits of wood at dogs who were slow in the uptake or over-zealous; a lame old man, with a beard which began immediately under his eyes, snatched a horse which had not finished drinking away from the well, struck it on the side for no apparent reason, and only then made his bow. Little boys in long blouses ran wailing to the cabins, lay on their stomachs on the high thresholds, hung down their heads, threw their legs in the air, and thus disappeared with great agility behind doors into dark passages from which they did not reappear. Even the chickens made off under the gates at a rapid trot; one bold cock, with a black chest like a satin waistcoat and a red tail which came curling right up to his crest, made as if to stay in the road and was just preparing to crow, but suddenly became self-conscious and ran off too. The bailiff’s cabin stood away from the others in the middle of a thick green hempyard. We halted in front of the gates. Mr. Penochkin got up, threw off his cloak with a picturesque gesture and alighted from the carriage, casting a friendly glance around. The bailiff’s wife welcomed us with low curtsies, then came up and kissed her master’s hand. Arkady Pavlich let her kiss away to her heart’s content and then went up to the porch. Inside the passage, in a dark corner, stood the headman’s wife and she curtsied too, but didn’t dare kiss hands. In the so-called “cold room”—to the right of the passage—two other women were already busy; they were carrying out all kinds of junk, empty jugs, sheepskin coats that had gone stiff, greasy pots, and a cradle containing a heap of rags and a mottle-faced baby, and were sweeping up the dust with bath-brooms. Arkady Pavlich sent them packing and installed himself on the bench under the icons. His coachmen began to carry in trunks, chests, and other accessories, while doing everything possible to deaden the sound of their heavy boots.

  Meanwhile, Arkady Pavlich was questioning the headman about the harvest, the sowing, and other farm topics. The headman answered adequately, but with a cer
tain dull awkwardness, like a man buttoning up a coat with frozen fingers. He was standing in the doorway, constantly looking over his shoulder and making way for the swift-footed valet. Behind his powerful frame I managed to get a glimpse of the bailiff’s wife quietly beating another woman in the passage. All at once a cart rattled up and halted in front of the porch, and the bailiff came in.

  This “born administrator,” to quote Arkady Pavlich, was a short, broad-shouldered, squat, gray-haired man with a red nose, little blue eyes, and a fan-shaped beard. Let us remark in passing that in all her history Mother Russia has never known a man make good and grow rich without a substantial beard; a man may have worn a meagre goatee all his days, then suddenly you see him enveloped on all sides in a kind of halo—wherever can all the hair come from! The bailiff must have taken a drop in Perov: his face was quite bloated, and he smelt of drink, too.

  “Oh, sir, father, benefactor,” he began in a sing-song voice, and with such emotion in his face that you expected the tears to start at any moment. “At last you have done us the honor! . . . Your hand, sir, your hand,” he added, sticking out his lips in anticipation.

  Arkady Pavlich satisfied his wish.

  “Well, Sofron, my friend, how are things with you?” he asked in a kind voice.

  “Oh, father!” exclaimed Sofron. “How could they be but well? For you, our father, sir, our benefactor, have done us the honor of brightening our village with your presence, and have made us happy to the end of our days! Praise be to the Lord, Arkady Pavlich, praise be to the Lord! All is well, thanks to your goodness.”

  Here Sofron fell silent, looked at his master, and, as if carried away again by a wave of emotion (added to which the drink inside him was claiming its due), begged leave to kiss his hand for a second time and began again with a more pronounced singsong than before.

  “Oh, sir, father, benefactor . . . and what besides! Goodness me, I’ve gone quite off my head from joy. . . . Goodness me, I can’t believe my eyes. . . . Oh, father! . . .”